Plain Truth

by Jodi Picoult

oh, God! I didn’t hear you.” When was the last time you did? I thought, but managed to curb the words before I spoke them.

“We all have things that come back to haunt us. Some of us just see them more clearly than others.”

Adam kissed her callused hand. It made her feel cherished, as if she were a princess instead of a farm girl.

“When you’re quilting, one missed stitch ruins the whole bunch.” With a rustle of covers, she turned to me. “You pull on it,” she whispered, “and they all unravel.”

“They make money for playing games?” Put that way, it sounded positively stupid. “Well, yeah.”

“What is it?” Coop murmured. I leaned into him again. “You,” I said. “Just you.”

“Committing a murder is the most arrogant act there is!

she imagined that he was drinking from the bowl of her heart.

He had not said he loved her, but that did not matter. It was how he acted, how he treated her, that was a truer measure than any words he could say—deeds were the proof of affection for her people, not three little syllables that signified nothing.

the minute I fell in love with you, time stopped.”

Call me crazy, but having a baby out of wedlock is a more severe infraction than reading Shakespeare on the side.

“Talking to a son won’t tell you what’s in the father’s mind.

If you choose to act a certain way to protect yourself, it implies conscious knowledge of what you’re doing. Thus, denial and guilt are linked.

You can’t create life in a place that’s dying by degrees.

“A saguaro can fall for a snowman,” Adam mused softly, “but where would they set up house?”

“Maybe it’s just that I believe things you can’t see.”

“Perhaps I haven’t mentioned it, but I’m an expert when it comes to first steps.” “Are you,” I said. “Then tell me how.” “You close your eyes,” Coop answered, “and jump.”